


Under the Planter

by enkidurga



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF
Genre: Cilantrovin, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-05-16
Packaged: 2019-05-07 18:07:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14676558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkidurga/pseuds/enkidurga
Summary: Melovin finds love in the produce department.





	Under the Planter

**Author's Note:**

> A Melovin x cilantro fic

It was the day after Eurovision and Melovin had returned to his big house, Big House Melovin, after spending a long couple of weeks in Lisbon not winning. Unpacking his bags, he placed the burnt remains of his piano on a shelf: his only souvenir. A framed photo of 9th wonder of the world and powerful goth icon Chyna bearing the engraving “Hall of Fame” smiled sweetly at him, serving as his only solace amongst the misery of his defeat.

“I’m so thirsty..” he muses softly to himself as he fishes his kinky chocolate perfume out of his bag. It had aphrodisiacs aplenty, but yet refused to yield a single suitable mate with a compatible horoscope sign for the Ukrainian vampire lord to call his. Also, he was actually thirsty after not being able to drink Filomena’s blood the day before. He needed sustenance, but after such a long trip, his pantry had been left barren to avoid waste.

So to the market he goes. Making his gothic pilgrimage he finds himself stopped by tons of adoring fans who totally ignore the fact that he got dead last in jury voting, all of them asking for pictures and singing his hit song “Under the Ladder” to him with far better pronunciation despite knowing just about as much English as he does. Eventually he gets tired of hearing this song and finds that the lingering effects of his perfume is doing nothing to attract the girls around him (plus he can already tell none of them are compatible because he had a dream about this and his dreams are really prophetic okay).

Closing his eyes, Melovin attempts to channel his inner animal to escape the crowd.

“I am a bat.” He breathes out softly before spreading his arms and flapping out of the crowd and screeching the rest of the way to the market.

Reaching the market, he deactivates his bat mode and enters the grocery store as emo-ly as possible, black coat flowing with the suction of air as the automatic doors slide open. A slight ding announces his presence as the in-store radio gently plays the highly iconic and light song “1944” by Jamala. Melovin decides he wants to eat salad.

The produce department calls to him, so he answers its pleas and approaches it. Bagged salad isn’t his style. Goth vampire lads must sustain themselves on finer, fresher greens so he eerily creeps to the refrigerated produce wall, giving a smoldering glance over of the wares.

“Mel-o-vin! Mel-o-vin!” the fruits and veggies cry in unison, their leaves branching towards him as the remains of his perfume waft through the air. Oh yes, he’s going to make a fine salad with these.

The fine scent of cilantro calls to him as he draws closer to the bushels of greenery and he knows he must have it. Warmth pools into his eyes, but you only probably see it in one because he’s too busy wearing that contact lense for you to see the other. Perhaps this is what he has always wanted. Melovin’s eyes trace the shape of the plant from its fanned out leaves down to the pale, thin stems hugged tightly by a band printed with a name that sounds only like a dream when he takes a second to let it roll off his tongue. _Cilantro_.

Yet he pauses in his thoughts to realize there is a voice truly calling for him.

“Melovin!” a voice from behind the wall beckons. Reaching his gloved hands out, he cautiously parts the cilantro to be met with the black shelf back.

“No, Melovin!” it continues, “I’m right here!”

“Where?” he calls out gothically, drawing back with a bunch of cilantro held delicately in one hand.

“Your scent captivates me. Strawberries, chocolate, ginger, and… is that…? A hint of sparkly wine. I knew from the moment you entered that I wanted you to hold me, and now you are.”

Melovin’s eyes lower to the cilantro, his lips parting slightly as he slowly begins to realize that the plant he had been admiring just moments ago is now calling to him in admiration.

“Please don’t put me back, Melovin.” The cilantro begs, “I have to be with you.”

“But cilantro,” the 17th place Eurovision finalist breathes, “we can’t possibly be together. After all, I’m an Aries.” Uncertainty flooded his thoughts, he had never dreamt of this moment. Filing through hundreds of dreams that in some way foretold his future, nothing like this had ever been hinted at and deep down, Melovin didn’t want to care about horoscopes as he became thirstier and thirstier until...

“And I’m a Gemini!” the cilantro retorts, apparently having a birthday. That was all he needed to hear. Melovin could no longer live without his cilantro, his will ignited like in that song he didn’t win with.

“Come back to my place.” Melovin invites the plant, speaking Ukrainian while doing this, but I’m not Ukrainian so it’s written in English. The cilantro agrees and the pair briskly leave the market. Without even paying.

The crowds of fans had no effect on them as he returned to his big house, Big House Melovin, welcoming his new love into his abode. Citrus’s mewls of welcoming were left unnoticed as the Ukrainian edgelord shed his black overcoat dramatically, flinging it roughly half way across the big house (melovin) as he hurried to his bedroom to make sweet music with his new hook up.

“Cilantro…” Melovin took a moment before reaching his bed which also wasn’t a bed but some weird piano crypt oven deal that he was birthed from roughly 210 years ago under the watchful eye of his father, Romanian falsetto vampire master Cezar. “Cilantro, I know we just met, but I feel it.”

Removing his gloves, Melovin’s bare hand hesitates before running through the moist leaves of the cilantro.

“I think you’re the one I need.” Now his voice lowers as he whispers a confession only for the two of them, “I think you’re the love I’ve been searching for. The love I couldn’t find in Lisbon.”

“Melovin, I need you.” Cilantro whimpers.

That is enough for him.

Into the piano they go, its interior adorned with photo edits of Slavko Kalezic propelling himself through space using his magnificent braid. Melovin turns the cilantro’s attention back onto him as he closes the distance between them, lips pressed flush against the delicate leaves for quite some time before leaving fluttering kisses down the stems. Heterochromatic eyes glance upwards as he reaches the band holding the stalks together.

The cilantro nods in approval.

Using his perfect teeth, the rubber band is removed, leaving the plant to splay out, exposing everything to the former X-factor season 6 winner.

“Promise, you’ll love every piece of me?” Cilantro asks softly.

“Of course, my sweet кинза.” Melovin replies before unbuttoning his vampire shirt from his Eurovision finals performance that he had yet to change out of and ravishing the thin stalks of his lover.

“I’d walk under any planter just to be yours.”

And from there on they oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, ooooh, yeeeahed into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> WHY


End file.
